


46th street and indian school

by novoaa1



Series: blackhill in phoenix, arizona [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/F, He sucks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Maria Hill Feels, Maria Hill needs a hug, Maria Hill-centric, POV Maria Hill, and uhh, just a small thing, maria has a mean dad, natasha's supportive!, she lives in phoenix arizona, theyre cute, uhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: It’s late on a Friday night—like, 'a quarter til’ two in thefuckingmorning’ late, and Maria’s absolutelybooking itdown the sidewalk in her trusty worn-down black high-top Converse like she fucking stole something, all busted-out lip and heart thudding painfully in her ribcage and ice-cold fear spreading rapidly throughout her veins until she fears it might consume her entirely.Or: Maria's dad is kind of an asshole, but Natasha's there for her.





	46th street and indian school

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh random drabble cause i like blackhill and i also just love blatant self-projection!!!
> 
> ahem
> 
> anywho
> 
> enjoy?

It’s late on a Friday night—like, 'a quarter til’ two in the _fucking_ morning’ late, and Maria’s absolutely _booking it_ down the sidewalk in her trusty worn-down black high-top Converse like she fucking stole something, all busted-out lip and heart thudding painfully in her ribcage and ice-cold fear spreading rapidly throughout her veins until she fears it might consume her entirely. 

As a bit of an afterthought, she makes a point to be grateful for the 61˚ F (16˚ C) night air around her, especially considering the fact that she’s dressed only in all-black cuffed jeans and a ‘Metallica’ T-shirt—living in Phoenix, Arizona is, after all, good for something, she supposes, even if it gets hot enough during the daytime to make her seriously consider walking out to the canal and flinging herself headfirst into hits grimy waters on what’s becoming an increasingly regular basis. 

The tell-tale roar of a pickup truck’s engine from somewhere off behind her is quick to jolt her back into the (admittedly) terrifying reality of her current situation; she picks up her pace with a suppressed grunt, chills running through her body when the glare of yellowy headlights from behind illuminate the intersection before her—fuck, he’s close.

She hangs a sharp right when she gets to the end of the unlit sidewalk, barely avoiding tripping over a child’s tricycle on the way and cursing breathlessly to herself even as the roar of the truck engine behind her only gets closer—her lungs burn and the soles of her feet _ache_ but she can’t afford to give up now, not when he’s so close. 

_Just a little further_, she tells herself as she tears down the sidewalk, sprinting by another intersection as the squeal of tires on gravel and roaming amber lights from behind her let her know that he’s _there_ (as if she could ever really forget), her tear-blurred vision dead-set on the row of diamond-shaped yellow warning signs up ahead that reflect the beam of the headlights behind her in the darkness. _Just a little bit further._

Her father’s Ford pickup is roaring deafeningly from behind by the time she reaches her destination, racing between two of the crooked yellow diamonds and screeching to a proverbial halt just before the blue-painted wooden bridge that spans a roughly five-foot drop between the road and the canal—she hears her father’s truck do the same behind her: the engine cutting, the creak of the driver’s side door opening and the crunch of his boots on the gravel as he gets out. 

(He doesn’t cut the lights, which makes her curse—instead, the strong yellowy-amber headlight beams of his 2004 Ford pickup cast her tall shadow luridly upon the slapdash bridge before her and the deceivingly smooth beige-hued crags of the canal beyond.)

“MARIA!” he howls, unadulterated rage permeating his demanding tone, the sound of it more than enough to have her labored breathing reaching a truly worrying state bordering on outright hyperventilation, her adrenaline-addled brain caught between clambering up the bridge and taking her chances running across the open canal with the hopes that he won’t pursue her, or jumping down into the grimy ditch that runs alongside the aforementioned canal for a good tens of miles and hiding there instead.

The sound of his angry footsteps stomping atop the gravel draws nearer and she makes a split-second decision (one she’s not quite sure whether or not she’ll be regretting later): sidestepping the blue-painted ramp before her and grabbing ahold of the bridge’s structurally-suspect wooden railing before taking a (quite literal) leap of faith feet-first down into the pitch-black depths. 

She lands upon slanted cement approximately four feet down with a muffled curse, the soles of her shoes squelching unpleasantly in a thin layer of mud beneath her as her arms windmill frantically around in an attempt to steady herself so as to avoid face-planting rather spectacularly into the ground and making this whole thing (all her running, all her blood-chilling fear, all her frantic efforts to escape) for naught—but, a second later, she hears him screaming a slurred string of profanity after her from up above and she’s jolting reflexively into action: sprinting upon the uneven cement ground (littered with the stiff growths of various weeds) blindly off to her right, her feet smarting painfully with every bump and crag that seem to bruise all-too-easily through the thin soles of her Converse, blood rushing loudly in her ears with every frenzied stride that takes her further and further away from the man she’d grown to fear since long before she even knew the meaning of the word, before she even knew just how thoroughly it’d tear her apart and _break_ her in a way she’s hard pressed to believe she’ll ever experience again in her life. 

Her chest heaves, her split lip stings, and the coppery taste of her own blood remains like the sourest reminder on her tongue—still, she pushes it all from the forefront of her mind, clenches her jaw, and continues running ahead through the narrow passageway (though, admittedly, it's a rather poor excuse for it, as off-the-beaten-path road-less-travelled passageways go), barely cognizant of the cold sweat plastering the damp cotton fabric of her shirt to her torso, the gentle rushing-water-sound of the canal she knows is just feet off to her left, the sheer _distance_ she covers after God knows how long as passed and she still has yet to cease her mindless dash towards what she so desperately _hopes_ is safety. 

There’s a bit of a beauty in it all, she thinks, even as she knows she must be crazy for thinking so—a bit of allure in the feeling of wet blood drying upon her bruised chin, the way her lungs burn from the truly unreasonable amount of cardio she’s undergone this evening, the way her ears pound and her chest aches and a familiar haze begins to settle upon her thoughts, one that makes her feel almost _euphoric_ despite it all. 

She doesn’t stop until she’s a good seven streets over, having crawled out of the passageway-slash-ditch just adjacent to the canal when she reached the first quasi-major intersection (which wasn’t easy, mind you—the dirt burns beneath her fingernails, the soles of her feet ache with soreness, and she thinks she probably looks homeless by now with how much dirt is streaked across her clothes). 

She collapses on a nearby bench at the intersection of 46th and Indian School, breathing heavily, vision spinning under the sheer _magnitude_ of it all—cars whip by (she revels in the gust of fresh air each passerby vehicle sends her way), police sirens wail from somewhere off in the distance, and it takes her a moment to realize it, but her phone’s buzzing insistently in her back pocket, begging to be answered. 

She’s not in the mood (she seldom is), but she digs it out anyways and takes a cursory glance at the screen, noting the name and mentally preparing herself to ignore the call entirely and get back to (or don’t) this person another day—

_Natasha_. 

It’s _Natasha_ who’s calling, Natasha whose name and number is staring back up at her upon the brightly-lit screen, and that realization hits her like a bucket of cold water—a spotless all-white Tesla zooms past her, and she clicks the bright green circle to answer the call before pressing the phone against her ear and turning her gaze skyward, where a couple lone stars can be seen even through a translucent haze of pollution spanning the heavens above. 

“Maria?” comes Natasha’s soothing, intoxicating voice over the line—she sounds worried, though. Distraught. 

(Maria longs to take that disquiet away from her.)

“Hi,” she chokes out numbly in reply whilst lowering gaze to stare intently at the gas station across the street, desperate for something to focus on even as her eyes begin to burn with tears that blur the scene in her vision, yellows and LED whites and neon reds-and-blues from the 7/11’s ‘Open’ sign across the street smearing hazily into one another until all she can see is technicolored smudges—it’s almost like _art_, she thinks, though it’s not as if she’d know the first thing about artistry to begin with.

(She thinks she might be going a little crazy right now.) 

“Maria? Talk to me... What’s wrong?” Natasha asks, soothing velvety undertones wrought with palpable worry and unease—and God, but she’s crying all of a sudden and she can’t fucking stop it, can’t help but feel like she’s home now, where she can fall apart like she’s been putting off since just short of forever because she knows that Natasha will catch all her splintered pieces, that Natasha won’t let her break like Maria’s feared she might from the very start. 

“I-I _need_ you, Nat, I-I-I c-can’t, I-I _can’t_—“

“Slow down, Maria, okay?” Natasha cuts her off in something like a plea, and vaguely, Maria registers the telltale sounds of Natasha getting up, snatching her keys off the vanity, readying herself to go. To _Maria_. (God, Maria loves her.) “Where are you right now?”

Maria inhales a shaky breath, a lone tear tracing her cheek. “F-F-Forty-sixth and Indian.”

“Okay, Maria, that’s good. I’m gonna hang up now, okay, but I’m coming to get you. Don’t move, darling, please?”

“I-I won’t,” Maria croaks out in response, biting her split lower lip hard despite the pain as another tear traces hotly down her cheek. 

“Okay, hon, I’ll be there in seven minutes. I love you.” 

She’s gone then with a _click!_ and Maria’s left blinking rapidly through her tears, fluorescent blurs spanning her watery vision, unseen cars whizzing periodically past as she dazedly pockets her phone, the sound of Natasha’s angelic voice playing on an endless loop in her brain. 

It’s not until a good three minutes later that her adrenaline-addled brain belatedly realizes what Natasha had said just before she hung up the phone: “I love you.”

_I love you_. 

(Neither of them have said that to one another before. 

Well… until now, she supposes.)

And, fuck it all, but Maria loves her right back. More than anything. 

(She can’t wait to tell her that.)

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

**Author's Note:**

> thots? (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


End file.
